Master Plan
by MizJoely
Summary: Nyssa returns to the Doctor's life thanks to the Master's meddling...and what he's got planned for her isn't pretty. Rated T for adult situations. Final chapter now up.
1. A Man, A Plan

**Prologue: Terminus**

Nyssa of Traken, Chief Administrator of the medical satellite known as Terminus, sat in her office. The only illumination came from the small light on her cluttered desk. The face revealed by the partial lighting was that of a young woman, but one on whose shoulders life had settled some heavy burdens. Her skin was smooth and unlined, auburn hair untouched by gray, falling in thick curls against her face, but her eyes were shadowed by more than the dim lighting, the frown she wore as she read through one of the day's many reports adding to the illusion of age brought on by a life spent in the care of others.

There was an air of authority to her that belied her obvious youth, the indefinable aura of one who has traveled a great distance from home yet managed to avoid cynicism in the process. Idealism could still be glimpsed, although she was far from feeling idealistic this night. The administrative details of running a major medical station could wear down even the most optimistic of people.

A cold cup of tea was half-buried under the mound of paper and computer disks that littered the desk's surface, and a half-eaten biscuit lay next to it, as forgotten as the tea. She should have gone to bed hours ago; she would have a busy day tomorrow, as she'd had a busy day today and the day before that and all the days before that. Busy days were par for the course on Terminus, even after she'd been forced to give up her research to devote herself full-time to administrative duties. Especially since then.

She rested her head on her hands, scrubbing tiredly at her eyes before leaning back in her seat for a stretch that did nothing to relieve her aching back. For every crisis resolved, ten more seemed to crop up. "I think I need a vacation," she murmured to herself, but there was no real conviction in her voice. For one thing, where would she go? The Eye of Orion came to mind, but she instantly discarded it. Too many memories.

That was her real problem; no matter where she went, her memories traveled with her. The one thing she couldn't escape was herself, and a simple vacation wouldn't give her the peace of mind she so desperately needed.

Terminus had seemed like a godsend, when she first arrived and saw how badly the space station needed to be taken in hand—had it really only been five years ago? Now, in spite of the avalanche of paperwork on her desk, everything was actually running smoothly. Her efforts had attracted notice; that notice had generated first scorn, then curiosity, and finally admiration. That in turn had led to much-needed assistance, when it became obvious that the radiation treatments for the plague were actually working. The first shipload of volunteers had made a tremendous difference, and more and more came every year.

Soon, the plague itself would be completely under control. One of her researchers had achieved what Nyssa had despaired of ever accomplishing; he'd created a vaccine. It was still relatively untested, but the hope it generated was almost as good as the vaccine itself. Fewer and fewer victims arrived too late for help; more and more came when they first discovered their condition, voluntarily. And every year, more of them left, healthy, with renewed hope and faith. Some even stayed on to assist with the other patients or the day-to-day operations of the station; most of her engineers and technical staff were, in fact, former patients and members of their grateful families.

But even with all the people who passed through the station, all the researchers and technicians and support staff and doctors and nurses and medics, Nyssa still felt alone. She had no friends, no one she was truly close to. There were times when she regretted that more than anything else; on the TARDIS, she'd at least had friends. Here, she had no one, and she wasn't really sure why. Part of it was because too many people treated her with a respect bordering on awe she hardly felt she deserved.

But, loathe as she was to admit it, there was more to it than that. At first, there simply hadn't been enough time for her to form relationships of a personal nature; later, she admitted in the silence of her private office, she used her work and the frequent awe with which people regarded her as an excuse to keep her distance. It was the one thing she couldn't quite figure out how to fix, this...reticence on her part. She'd gained a reputation as a miracle worker by what she considered simple persistence and a desire—no, a _need_—to turn Terminus into the medical station it should have been from the start, to save the lives of the people who ended up there. But she couldn't fix her own life. It was ironic, really; Nyssa found herself wondering how the Doctor had managed it. His responsibilities were infinite, compared to hers; yet he somehow managed to form the relationships she had trouble with. Friendships, anyway. Her lips twisted wryly as she admitted that he'd never seemed to form any romantic attachments.

No matter how other people might have felt.

"That's it, Nyssa; off to bed with you." She pushed the chair away from the desk and rose to her feet. "Once you start getting maudlin about the 'good old days,' it's time and past time for you to get some sleep."

"I couldn't agree with you more." Nyssa whirled at the sound of that soft voice; her desk faced the door, she would have seen anyone enter her office, how could someone be in the room with her? She tried to get a good look at the speaker, but his face was in shadow. Before she could move away from her desk, he moved forward with blinding speed, and she felt something hit her with enough force to bring her to her knees. A second blow sent her already reeling consciousness quickly to oblivion.

**The TARDIS**

The Doctor came slowly to consciousness, inexplicably finding himself lying by the base of the console on the floor of his TARDIS. Why he had collapsed, how long he had been unconscious, what had transpired during his blackout, all were questions that demanded answers. And all were questions that might not be answerable, he dizzily admitted as he brushed away several strands of blonde hair that had fallen across his eyes. _Time for a trim,_ he thought irrelevantly, then winced as a wave of dizziness and nausea passed over him.

When it passed, he managed to raise his head and roll over on his side. From there it was just a matter of pulling himself to his knees to take a cautious look around. Nothing seemed out of place, except for his pounding head and protesting stomach, of course. He ignored his body's complaints, pulling himself to his feet through sheer force of will, leaning heavily against the console as he waited for the dizziness to subside.

Once his head felt as if it would stay attached to his body and not go floating off at the slightest movement, the Doctor forced himself to stand fully upright in an attempt to take visual stock. He scanned the small console room, wincing as a few, residual waves of dizziness and nausea passed over him. Nothing seemed out of place, nothing appeared to be broken or missing...

He froze as he finally turned enough to see the TARDIS view screen. Instead of the surrounding landscape of whatever planet it was he'd landed on—if, indeed, he had landed somewhere, and wasn't still floating in the swirling void of the Vortex—it showed the interior of another TARDIS console room, a console room with a single occupant. The Doctor stared incredulously at the image of the Master lounging elegantly in a throne-like chair ostentatiously arranged in front of his own console. He leaned forward, his face breaking into a welcoming smile that made the Doctor's skin crawl.

"Ah, you're awake," the Master greeted him. "I must admit, I was tempted to simply kill you while I had you at my mercy, but—" he shrugged elegantly, "—I decided it would be better if I remained with my original plan." He settled back comfortably in his seat, fingers steepled, a mocking smile on his lips.

The Doctor wasn't having any of it. "What is it this time?" he demanded, residual nausea giving his voice an edge he normally wouldn't have allowed his enemy to hear. "Have you hidden a bomb on my TARDIS? Or is it a more elaborate booby trap?" He didn't bother asking how the Master had knocked him out, or what he had used; it wasn't important, not right now, and would only give the other Time Lord an opportunity to brag.

The Master made a tutting sound. "Not even going to congratulate me on my cleverness, Doctor? It took me quite a while to figure out how to connect our monitors." Another smile as the Doctor's eyes darted over the edges of the screen, as if the Master's words were to be taken literally. "Electronically connected, Doctor, rather symbolic of our own relationship. Connected, yet worlds apart. And now all we can see is each other."

"Very ingenious," the Doctor agreed through clenched teeth. The Master rarely needed an excuse—or encouragement—when it came to boasting. "I hereby congratulate you. Now, if you would be so kind as to answer my question?"

The last sentence was almost shouted, and the Master's eyebrows rose in an exaggerated gesture of surprise. "Really, Doctor, you astonish me. I do believe you're losing your temper."

The Doctor made an effort to rein in his impatience. He would get nowhere by shouting, and the Master would play his little games no matter what. He relaxed his combative stance, settling his face into a more neutral expression as he reached deep inside himself for the control he would need to continue this conversation. "Very well," he said pleasantly. "Forgive my lack of manners. To what do I owe this...honor?"

The Master ignored the sarcasm that virtually dripped from his adversary's tongue. "I thought you'd see it my way," he smirked. "It does my heart good to know that you haven't completely forgotten your etiquette." The smile vanished. "But enough of the social graces; on to business." The Doctor leaned forward at those words, bracing himself for whatever it was the Master happened to be up to this time, readying himself for the usual round of demands and ultimatums.

The Master rose from his chair, and the Doctor noted with part of his mind that he had shed his habitual black velvet for a loose, belted robe of deep gray whose billowing sleeves barely revealed his still-gloved hands. "We've known each other a long time, haven't we?" the renegade Time Lord mused. "Always adversaries, always representing opposite sides of the coin, you and I. I'd go so far as to say that we've never agreed on anything, have we?"

When it became obvious that he expected some sort of response, the Doctor shook his head. "No, we haven't. Even at the Academy. Even when we were supposedly working toward the same goal."

The Master nodded regally. "I'm sure you'll be delighted to know that I've finally discovered something we can share. Or rather," he added deliberately, "some _one_." He stepped back and pulled the massive wooden chair aside with a theatrical flourish, to reveal the unconscious form of Nyssa of Traken on the floor behind him.

The Doctor drew in his breath sharply at the unexpected sight of the woman he hadn't permitted himself to regret leaving on Terminus. Nyssa's arms were held awkwardly over her head, incongruously shackled to the TARDIS console with archaic iron manacles. She half-sat, half-lay in the cramped space beneath the mushroom-shaped control board, auburn curls tumbled in uncharacteristic disarray. The Doctor glimpsed her face through the partial screen of her hair, enough to see the dried blood and yellowish-purple of an ugly bruise on her temple.

The Master returned his attention to the view screen, caught the look of stunned concern the Doctor didn't bother to hide. "Oh, she is quite unharmed, I assure you." He glanced back down at his prisoner. "Well, _mostly_ unharmed," he amended with a shrug. "I admit that the shackles are a theatrical touch, but they appeal to the showman in me." He returned his mocking gaze to the Doctor.

"What have you done to her?" the other Time Lord demanded, all pretense at patience gone.

The Master raised his head regally, shedding casualness—and his congenial mask—like a cloak. "Your problem has always been your emotions," he said disdainfully. "You foolishly allow your sentimentality to get in the way of your sensibility." A reflective pause. "Actually, I've gotten rather used to your emotional outbursts, and I must admit, I've never been one to turn down a weapon. Especially one that's been handed to me by my enemy. My only regret is that I didn't think of this sooner. Of course," he added, "I was never handed this particular weapon before."

"What weapon? Kidnapping?" the Doctor sneered. "Hostage taking? Oh yes, very original, that. Nothing you've ever tried before."

The Master frowned at the insult in the Doctor's voice. "Not just kidnapping or hostage taking," he corrected sharply. "Not this time."

The Doctor hid the chill that passed over him as he asked with feigned casualness, "Oh? Shall I dare to presume that you are going to inform me of your intentions sometime in the near future?"

The smile that spread slowly over the Master's face terrified the Doctor to the core of his soul. "Oh yes," came the low-voiced response. "Oh yes indeed."

"Where are you?" Suddenly, the Doctor was weary of the eternal game of cat and mouse he always seemed to be playing with his former school-mate. "What do you want me to do? Trade myself for Nyssa? Very well. I surrender. Just tell me where you are."

"Oh no, Doctor," the Master purred. "It's not that simple. I don't believe you've fully grasped my intentions yet." The Doctor stiffened at these words, staring speculatively at his adversary as he continued: "I told you this wasn't a simple hostage-taking." He made a dismissive gesture. "For once, you're actually right; there's no real imagination involved in that. No challenge. Which is exactly what I propose: A challenge. To begin…now." With that, he stepped over to the console and pressed a series of buttons. "I have just locked the signal between our screens. It cannot be turned off—or at least, not from your end." He touched his console lightly. "Only from here."

"To what purpose?" the Doctor asked, blue eyes narrowed suspiciously.

"It can be traced," the Master continued, ignoring the question. "I'm confident of your ability to home in on it...eventually."

"And—?" the Doctor prompted. "Surely that isn't all of it."

"Certainly not," the Master replied, offended. "That would be too simple a task for so mighty an intellect." His voice rang with mockery once again. "I intend to make it more...interesting."

"I would use many adjectives to describe this conversation, but 'interesting' would _not_ be one of them," the Doctor snapped in exasperation. "What do you want to do? Put money on it?"

"I make no such petty wagers, Doctor," the Master sneered. "I bargain with nothing less than this woman's life." He let that sink in before continuing. "This all began on Trion, when I happened to run into someone you used to know. I wonder if you realize just how bitter Turlough is about you." He cocked his head inquisitively, then shook it in mock sympathy. "Perhaps not. At any rate, he and I met at a drinking establishment, one that catered to outworlders; he said he felt more comfortable there, after spending so much time away from his own world. I of course felt it prudent not to disclose my identity; you know how it is." He touched his chest in a self-deprecating manner, his gaze moving down to Nyssa. "I managed to get him talking about his travels with you, a fabled Time Lord." The Master's eyes hardened. "But not so fabled to a disillusioned young Trion nobleman..."

* * *

_A/N: Another story I've dredged up from my past. I wrote this around 2005 and just had it beta'd (thanks moonmama!) in order to offer it up for your reading pleasure. It gets dark and angsty and made me squirm a little while writing it, to be honest, but I think it holds up. Let me know what you think as well._


	2. Ugly Revelations

**oooooooooooooo **

Turlough knew he was talking too much, but he didn't care. It had been far too long since he'd had a sympathetic—and disinterested, if that weren't too much of a contradiction—ear. His brother couldn't understand, and there was no one Turlough was closer to, not on Trion. Why not share his troubles with a stranger in a bar? Why not tell that stranger about how poorly he'd been treated since he came home, how it had all been his father's fault for being on the wrong side of the political wrangling during Turlough's childhood, his mother's fault for not being strong enough to stand up to his father, his planet's fault for exiling them after his father's spectacular political failures? Why not tell him about the supposed change in political climate that allowed him to return home, only to discover that some things hadn't really changed? The wrong things? And why not tell him about the problems that exile had caused Turlough? He seemed interested enough...

"He treated her shabby, if you want my opinion," Turlough mumbled belligerently into his _a'lwhara_. "Just left her on that bloody space station, no one around but a bunch of sick aliens and that rat thing, just left her, and after all she'd done for him—"

"I don't understand, friend," the stranger murmured, putting out a gloved hand as if to lay it on Turlough's arm, then snatching it away before actually making contact. "I thought she was a mere traveling companion, like yourself and the Earth girl. Free to make her own choices."

"I never said any different," Turlough replied, taking a long drink from his mug, suddenly cautious. Talking about his travels with the Doctor always made him slightly uncomfortable, as if he were giving away secrets. And feeling uncomfortable always made him angry; why should he feel that way? He didn't owe the Doctor anything.

"Your words may not say any different, but your voice certainly does," the stranger countered.

Turlough shrugged, concentrating on his drink, vaguely aware that he'd allowed himself to become far more inebriated tonight, on his birthday, than he had ever been in his life. And not caring, either. He turned to stare at the man who had been buying him drinks for the past few hours, unearthly blue eyes narrowed in sudden suspicion. "What do you know about it?" he demanded belligerently.

The stranger raised his hands in a placating gesture. "I know nothing about it," he offered soothingly. "I simply...wondered."

"Well, there's nothing to wonder about," Turlough snarled, turning away sharply. "Nyssa was the most wonderful woman I've ever known—intelligent, brave, resourceful, beautiful—and he treated her like he treated everyone, like he didn't even notice her or her feelings. Even though Tegan and I both knew how she felt." He fell abruptly silent, as if he regretted his outburst, but the damage had been done.

"She was in love with the Doctor," the stranger murmured in sudden comprehension. Turlough nodded, then demanded another drink. The Master nodded at the bartender's doubtful look, laying down more money to soothe the man's obviously uncertain conscience. The money did the trick, as the Master had expected; the bartender merely shrugged and refilled Turlough's thick ceramic mug with the frothy beverage, then moved on to another customer.

The Master waited until Turlough had taken his first gulping sip before continuing his delicate questioning. "Did he return her feelings?"

"No," Turlough replied harshly. His eyes, bleary and bloodshot, shone with emotion, even through the cumulative effects of a night of steady drinking. He could certainly hold his liquor, the Master would give him that. "Like I said, he never even noticed how she felt, much less showed her how _he_ felt. Never really showed any of us that; it wouldn't do to go parading your emotions in front of lesser beings, now would it? Even if he had any."

His voice held more bitterness than the Master would have expected from a former traveling companion of the Doctor, but then, Turlough was hardly an ordinary traveling companion. Nor had Nyssa been, apparently; this conversation had turned in utterly unexpected directions, and the Master found himself grateful that one of his latest weapons required technology only available on Turlough's home planet. But he also wondered if the sharp featured red-head realized how much of his own emotions he was giving away. Only one way to find out...

"You were in love with her?" he prodded. Turlough's shoulders tightened, and the Master braced himself for a violent response. Not that he was worried about taking the youth on; he simply made a habit of preparing himself for all eventualities. And it was not impossible that Turlough's mood, already bitter, could take an abrupt turn for the worse. Especially after such a direct—and intensely personal—question.

After a moment of dead silence, Turlough's shoulders sagged and he nodded, turning his face away once again. "Yes. I was in love with her," he replied softly. "Still am; I'm drunk enough to admit it tonight. I was in love with her, and she was in love with him, and the Doctor—well, he was always in love with himself, that one." The bitterness returned to his voice. "When he left her on Terminus, he didn't even turn a bloody hair. Tegan was in hysterics and my heart was broken around my feet, and he just left her, cool as you please, without even a real good-bye. And she wouldn't let me stay with her. I would have, too," he added, his voice low and passionate. "But she told me no, that it was something she had to do on her own. I don't even know if she had a chance to finally tell him how she felt, or if he knew he was the real reason she left." He gazed reflectively into the contents of his mug. "But I could tell it hurt her to leave him. Hurt her a lot."

"Perhaps she simply realized that he couldn't love her the way she loved him," the Master offered, more to see the boy's reaction than anything else. "Perhaps she, too, realized, the way you did, that he was too self-absorbed to be able to return her love."

Turlough's lips quirked in a tight, humorless smile. "I don't really think the Doctor was that much in love with himself, no more than any of us are; I think he just spent so much time caring about the big problems, that he forgot how to care about the little things, like the people who were closest to him. But he made all of us care for him, him and his crazy crusades to save the universe, and that's what hurt the most. He couldn't seem to spare enough time from the universe to see how much we cared. How much _she_ cared."

When he fell silent this time, the Master knew it was for good; he'd said all he had to say. The disguised Time Lord murmured an excuse about meeting someone elsewhere, and Turlough merely waved him away listlessly. His half-finished drink sat on the bar in front of him; the Master had a feeling it would remain there until the boy finally returned home, more than likely to brood on his obviously less-than-happy memories.

Running into the Doctor's former traveling companion had been sheerest coincidence; the Master had completely forgotten that Turlough came from Trion. Even if he'd remembered, he would never have expected to run into him in a sleazy portside bar; it wasn't exactly the sort of place young Trion noblemen frequented. But then, Turlough was hardly the average young Trion nobleman, not after exile and traveling with the Doctor and the bitterness spawned by both experiences. It was obvious that his triumphant homecoming had fallen far short of his expectations.

When the Master recognized Turlough, his first thought had been that this was a golden opportunity to work some mischief against one of the Doctor's pet projects. That had been his intention when he first started speaking to the boy, thankful that he had taken the precaution of donning a disguise while conducting his business on Trion. It always paid to be cautious, an adage Turlough might think about adhering to in the future. However, as the evening progressed, it became increasingly obvious that nothing he could do to the youngster could possibly be worse than what he'd already done to himself.

In spite of Turlough's protestations of happiness at finally being where—and when—he belonged, the Master could tell that he was lying through his teeth. That being where he belonged wasn't nearly as satisfying as Turlough had expected it to be, and that the bitterness of that realization was exacerbated by the things he'd revealed. Things that were part of his past, a past he seemed incapable of letting go. Turlough was too sunk in his own misery, brooding on might-have-beens and perceived injustices done to him—by his father, by his planet's government, by the Doctor, by just about everyone he spoke of—to enjoy the life he'd struggled so hard to return to. A Time Lord walked in infinity, but Turlough trod the by-ways of the past, and could not find his way out. The Master was content to leave him there.

Even though he decided to leave the boy alone, however, the meeting left its mark. The Master had always concentrated his attempts at vengeance on the Doctor at the companions that were still traveling with his old enemy; what about the ones who had left? If Turlough was right—and the boy had no reason to lie—then one companion in particular might be the key...

**oooooooooooooo **

"It might behoove you to pay more attention to your traveling companions," the Master concluded. "Of course, that's only one man's opinion, but I do believe Turlough is an unimpeachable source. After all, he traveled with you for how long?"

Before the Doctor could respond, Nyssa stirred, moaning softly and bringing both men's attention back to her supine form. "I'm just amazed that I never thought of doing anything like this before," the Master murmured. "Interesting, isn't it, how a chance encounter can alter a lifetime's way of thinking." He shook his head, an ironic smile touching his lips.

The Doctor tore his eyes away from Nyssa with difficulty, to glare at the Master. "I think you've danced around the subject long enough," he spat out, ignoring the twinges of conscience his enemy's story caused. Turlough could wait; Nyssa could not. "Get to the point."

"Very well," the Master agreed with a disdainful sniff. His eyes bored directly into the Doctor's. "According to young Turlough, Nyssa fell in love with a Time Lord, one who obviously didn't appreciate what she had to offer. I, however, am very well suited to appreciate her. And that, old friend, is just what I intend to do. Appreciate her." He repeated those words with relish, savoring every syllable. "After I consider myself sufficiently amused, she dies."

It didn't take the Doctor long to realize just what the other Time Lord was referring to; his eyes widened and his mouth dropped in an expression of shocked disbelief. "I never thought you'd stoop to rape," he finally managed to get out, his voice thick with rage.

"I admit, it's not my usual style," the Master agreed, unfazed by the Doctor's reaction, "but I felt a need for a change in tactics. After all, my normal methods haven't been nearly as effective as I would like. Do you think," he added, as if struck by a sudden thought, "that it makes any difference that I wear her father's body?"

Nyssa had regained full consciousness by the beginning of the Master's speech. The terrified expression on her face spoke volumes to both men, who turned their gazes back upon her in the same instant, the Master thoughtfully and the Doctor with an expression of helpless fear. It sickened him to think of his enemy using any woman the way he proposed, let alone one of his former companions, but it was obvious the Master relished the prospect. That last comment, tossed off as if he had just thought of it, was simply his way of twisting the emotional knife.

"If you find us in time, Doctor, you might possibly save her life," the Master was saying, grinning in a manner that let the Doctor know that he understood quite well what he was doing. "After all," he added, "it _will_ be a slow death. I want to be fair, don't I? Give you a sporting chance?" He grinned wolfishly, then turned his back on the Doctor and pulled an intricate dagger from its hiding place in one sleeve. Nyssa saw it as well; her eyes were large and luminous with fear as she struggled futilely with her bonds.

"NO!" she and the Doctor shouted at the same time as the Master, ignoring them both, merely pressed another button on his TARDIS console with his free hand. His prisoner's bonds sprang open; she tilted over on one side at the unexpected freedom before scrambling to her feet, staring at the Master as if mesmerized. He simply waited, smiling and toying idly with the dagger, as she finally wrenched her gaze away to look with desperate appeal at the Doctor's image on the view screen. His helplessness must have been clear to her; her expression turned to one of grim determination as she bolted for the door that led to the interior of her captor's TARDIS, all without saying a single word.

The Master continued to grin as he padded after her without haste. Before exiting the console room, however, he paused and turned back to the monitor. "Not to worry, Doctor. I shall return with her for the conclusion of this little comedy." With that, he, too, disappeared through the inner door, which banged shut with a terrible sense of finality.

The Doctor stood rooted to the spot, staring in stunned disbelief at the now-empty room on the view screen. Precious moments passed before he was able to shake off his paralysis and leap frantically to the TARDIS controls, looking for something—anything—that would point him in the right direction. He'd jury-rigged enough equipment in the past; this should be the proverbial piece of cake. With any luck, he'd not only be able to save Nyssa's life, but also keep her from having to endure the rest of the Master's vile threats as well. She was a clever girl; she should be able to hide in the alien TARDIS long enough for the Doctor to solve this riddle. He clung to that hope as he went to work.

* * *

_A/N: Yes, intentionally creepy and gross. Just as a point of interest: Originally the story featured Tegan in the same situation, but this seemed to work out much better. I can certainly imagine Turlough in love with Nyssa, but definitely NOT with Tegan. Let me know what you think!_


	3. Prey

**oOo **

Nyssa was running out of time; she could practically feel the minutes slipping away as she sought to avoid the Master inside his own TARDIS. She felt sick and faint one moment, bursting with adrenalin-fed energy the next. Her breathing was ragged, even when she forced herself to stop running and rest, and her heartbeat never slowed its rapid tattoo in her chest. Her eyes darted around nervously, and her hands were shaking. She was definitely not at her best.

The absurd futility of what she was attempting to do—buy time while on the run from a Time Lord—tempted her to laughter as she squatted in the darkness of her current hiding place. She squashed the impulse mercilessly, knowing that if she gave in to it, even for a moment, she would quickly collapse into an hysterical heap. _Brave heart, Nyssa_. She bowed her head and fought back the tears that now threatened, not only because of her situation, but from the memories that simple phrase evoked. She pounded with a tightly clenched fist on the storage crate she crouched behind, angry at her own helplessness. _Do try to think of something constructive_, she scolded herself. _What would the Doctor do if he were in this situation?_

Self-criticism worked, at least for now, to repair the brief damage done by self-pity; the urge to burst into either hysterical laughter or uncontrollable sobs subsided as she concentrated on a careful study of her surroundings. Thoughts of the Doctor steadied her as well; the knowledge that he was actively working on a solution was comforting, even in her current situation. She'd always been able to depend on him to do his best, and the Doctor's best made anyone else's outstanding pale in comparison.

She'd been on the run for several hours, if her chronometer was to be trusted. Surely that was more than enough time for the Doctor to come up with some kind of a solution—or, at the very least, long enough for him to implement the tracer beam the Master had taunted him with. There was no question in Nyssa's mind, no doubt as to his ability to create such a beam; it was only a matter of time. But even when he did it, she knew with a sinking feeling, it would take even more time for him to get here and execute one of his signature last-minute rescues. Which all led back to the undeniable fact that she had to get moving again. She didn't dare stay in one place; whether the Master was tracking her with superior Gallifreyan technology or by simple stealth, she'd heard him behind her—close—once too often already.

Instinct told Nyssa to go deep, as far into the lowest levels as she could. Those same levels on the Doctor's TARDIS seemed to be the oldest; she'd gambled that those on the Master's ship would be the same, and it had paid off. The lower regions seemed to function on both time machines as long-abandoned basements, ill-lit and gloomy, with plenty of convenient dark nooks and crannies in which to hide. The doors gaped open blackly and there were piles of crates and assorted items she had neither the time nor the desire to identify, piled in the rooms and haphazardly stacked in the halls as if waiting for removal to some other place. And dust on every flat surface, silent testimony to the Master's disinterest in this part of his TARDIS.

Only the floor remained dust-free, the result of built-in static dischargers, the Doctor had told her once during an afternoon spent exploring places he confessed he hadn't visited in years. Not that such details mattered, not now. The only things that mattered were that there were no footprints to give her direction away, and that the darkness gave her ample hiding places to choose from. Her current position was only a resting point, while she caught her breath and decided which direction to take next; the Master was no doubt close behind, and she wanted to at least attain a defensible position before he inevitably caught up with her.

Nyssa shook her head violently, dispelling the vivid nightmare images her mind dredged up every time she allowed herself to think directly of her pursuer and his plans for her. Plans that had been quite explicit, quite clear, with none of the oblique subtleties that usually characterized his threats. It was hard, very hard, not to conjure up lurid images of what he had planned for her. Especially when he spoke in her father's voice, looked at her through her father's eyes, and anticipated doing horrible things to her with her father's hands and body…She felt sick, it was too terrible to contemplate. The Doctor would rescue her; he always had, and this time would be, _had_ to be, no different.

**oOo **

He almost had it. Just one more connection, and he'd be able to trace the Master's TARDIS and follow the beam to the other ship. Not that he would necessarily catch up with it; after all, it was a newer model than the Doctor's, faster and more maneuverable. Or at least as fast and maneuverable as a TARDIS ever got. But he wouldn't worry about that now; he needed to concentrate.

A noise like a muffled scream came from the previously silent view screen. The Doctor jumped up, banging his head on the underside of the console before collapsing abruptly back to the floor. He tried again, this time moving carefully in order to avoid another accident. Rising to his knees, he peered cautiously over the edge.

The Master's console room seemed innocuous enough, comfortingly empty of people. But sitting tauntingly on the edge of the other console was a small bottle containing a deep blue liquid that froze the very blood in the Doctor's veins. While part of his brain noted that the "muffled scream" must have been the sound of the interior door of the Master's TARDIS slamming shut, the rest struggled to assimilate the identity of that suspicious blue liquid. Surely that couldn't be—no, even the Master wouldn't dare use that, would he?

As the Doctor came slowly to his feet, eyes riveted on the bottle, he knew with a sick feeling in the pit of his stomach that the Master was, indeed, capable of using it. Asphrodal. He clutched the edge of his own console with a convulsive gesture before dropping back to the floor in frantic haste and reaching for that last bit of circuitry.

The Doctor began to work even faster, cursing when the probe he was using slipped and cut his thumb. He ignored the blood, but moved more carefully after that. "Haste makes waste," he muttered to himself, dropping the probe in favor of another, smaller one. "A switch in time saves nine." He stopped and shook his head at that one. "Don't go buggy on me, old chap," he admonished himself as he returned to work. "Next thing you know, you'll be talking to yourself!"

There. It was connected. He should now be able to trace the Master to wherever he was hiding. With any luck, that would be before the galaxy's most potent—and deadly—aphrodisiac was put to use. The Doctor tore his gaze away once more, his fingers flying as he punched in the commands that would allow his TARDIS to follow the signal being emitted by the Master's ship. It was just a matter of time.

**oOo **

Nyssa let out her breath in a silent sigh of relief. There was nothing. No sound, no movement, no sign of the light she'd seen bobbing behind her the last time her adversary had almost caught up with her; he hadn't even bothered trying to hide it, the arrogant bastard. Anger gave her the courage to move again. _Now_, she decided. _I'll beat you at this yet. _She darted out from behind the crate, intent on another patch of darkness only a few yards away.

Someone grabbed her forearm, jerking her around to face the opposite direction in which she'd been heading. A startled scream escaped her throat, only to be cut off as her momentum carried her forward to smash painfully into the Master's chest.

Before she had a chance to recover, he caught both wrists in a grip whose strength frightened Nyssa almost as much as his unexpected presence behind her in the darkness. She tried and failed to jerk away from that bruising hold, fingers curled into ineffectual claws. Her father had never displayed such physical strength, but she had never known him in his prime…While her mind was busy with those trivialities, her body was hard at work, kicking and bucking, twisting and turning, in a desperate struggle to escape.

The Master was smiling, a faint, amused smile that grew broader as her struggles grew wilder. Since that first, panicked scream, Nyssa saved her breath. No one could hear her anyway. Her captor was holding her away from him now; she aimed a knee at a particularly sensitive area of the male anatomy, only to have her attempt foiled by the Master's quick reflexes. She connected with his thigh, but it was far from a crippling blow. She had the satisfaction of seeing his smile change to a grimace before he spun her around, moving as silently as she, to slam her jarringly against the wall.

Nyssa felt something wet and sticky trickle down the side of her face. Her head, still tender from the blows she'd suffered on the space station, was bleeding again. The Master, wasting no time, pressed himself against her as she struggled to breathe, to clear her vision. Not in an embrace; he merely kept his victim pinned, his legs holding hers, one hand holding both of her wrists together crushingly, the other arm pressed against her throat.

His arm continued to press mercilessly into her throat, cutting off her remaining air. A roaring filled her ears and black spots danced before her eyes as her knees buckled and she lost consciousness, her final sight that of the Master's triumphant, leering face looming over her.

**oOo **

Time passed, and the Doctor allowed himself a cautious ray of hope. The longer it took for the Master to appear, every minute he didn't show, was another minute Nyssa continued to elude him. The Doctor clung to that thought; until he caught up with the Master's TARDIS, it was the only hope he had.

His eyes were the only thing that betrayed his nervousness. They ranged back and forth between two items: the bottle of asphrodal on the screen before him, and the indicator on the console beside him. He'd had the desperate inspiration of tying in the independent TARDIS passive scanning systems, the ones used for collection of data to be culled later for any relevant information, to the temporal and real-space navigation systems. With that small change, the TARDIS was able to follow the Master's signal even through the random and abrupt changes in time his ship took, not to mention the convoluted path through physical space.

Course changes were calculated and laid in through the computer far more rapidly than the Doctor could have managed, and it even seemed as if a pattern might be emerging. Which was only logical, considering that the Master's TARDIS had to be in control of his automatic pilot system, with random course changes factored into the programming. It was simply a matter of finding the correct algorithm, the Doctor told himself. Whether there was actually a pattern emerging or not, he didn't know if he'd break it before it was too late; there didn't seem to be any way to get ahead of the Master. All he could do was follow. Another problem was that there was no way to tell how far apart—through space or time—the two ships were. Thanks to the Master's maneuverings, it seemed as if the two ships were at a constant, static distance apart. Stalemate, unless the Doctor came up with a brilliant, unexpected countermove to end the game without having to concede defeat. That was simply not an option.

That line of thought was even more counter-productive than actively fretting over Nyssa. The Doctor tried to ignore his mounting frustration, resolutely turning his thoughts to what he remembered about asphrodal.

It was a true aphrodisiac; that much was common knowledge. Its popularity was due to the second fact he had in his memory; not only did it work, but it was reported to work on every known sentient life form capable of sexual reproduction—whether they practiced it or not. Humanoids were especially susceptible, all species and races, from Sontarans to Earth Humans to Time Lords.

His mind retreated from that line of thought; it was easier on his nerves to concentrate on the scientific factors of asphrodal, and not speculate as to its potential applications in this current, horrible situation. Nor on its ultimate effect on those it was given to; death was the final consequence of taking the aphrodisiac, unless the antidote were administered. Which was a matter of extremely delicate timing. The window of opportunity was brief; the antidote had to be administered either before the end of the first stage, or else not until immediately following sexual release. The timing was critical, especially if the first opportunity were missed. One of asphrodal's nasty side effects was the way chemical changes in the body after orgasm triggered a biochemical change in the drug's properties, changing it to literal poison if the antidote were not administered in time.

That was, in fact, a large part of its illicit appeal; too many jaded thrill-seekers found that the threat of death added to the sexual experience. Many of those had died, simply by waiting scant seconds too long before taking the antidote. And too many others had died because they hadn't known that an antidote was required, or because the drug had been administered without their knowledge or consent.

Death was prolonged, the body's sensitivity exaggerated until the slightest movement brought agony, the pleasure center of the brain stimulated beyond the ability of the body to bear, the nerves on fire, convulsions and brain damage being the least of the effects. Next to be affected was the cardio-vascular system; the heart would speed up until it literally burst in the victim's chest, death finally following but not a pretty one. Many victims had torn their own eyes out, had beat themselves to death before the poison finished them off, shot or stabbed themselves, thrown themselves off buildings…

The Doctor forced his gaze back to the indicator with a scowl. A new sound from the view screen a moment later caused him to jerk his eyes back to face it; yes, it was indeed the door to the console room being opened that had caught his attention. The Doctor held his breath as the Master backed into the room.

Any hopes that his adversary had merely returned to taunt him died at the sight of Nyssa, lying limp and unconscious in the Master's arms. There was fresh blood on her temple, but even that sight was superseded by the look of malicious triumph on the Master's face.

He held Nyssa slightly aloft, a hunter displaying his trophy, before laying her gently on the floor. He rose to face the Doctor. The two exchanged stares for a long moment, before the Master deliberately shifted his eyes to the console—and the small bottle with its innocent-looking blue contents. He reached for it slowly, allowing the Doctor plenty of time to watch and protest.

Protest he did. "No," the Doctor whispered hoarsely . "You can't. You'll kill her."

The Master smiled again. "I believe that is the point of this little exercise, Doctor," he purred. "I _did_ say that it would be slow."

"You _also_ said you wanted to be fair," the Doctor shot back. He took a futile step forward, hands gripping the edges of the console as if to physically hold him back from rushing the view screen.

The Master had the audacity to chuckle. "But of course, Doctor; did you think I'd go back on my word?" He produced another, smaller bottle, holding it up with a flourish before replacing it in his pocket. "The antidote. If you arrive in time, you may have the honor of administering it to your lovely young friend." He grinned nastily. "I emphasize the _if_."

The Doctor formed an unconscious fist with one hand, smashing it ineffectually against the console. "Leave her alone," he snarled, eyes blazing with helpless rage.

The Master raised an eyebrow. "Really, Doctor, I do believe you've been spending too much time with your precious earthlings; you're even beginning to sound like one of them." He turned away contemptuously, his gaze dropping to rake Nyssa's inert form with what appeared to be clinical detachment—except for the hungry, wolfish look in his dark eyes.

The Doctor felt his breath catch in his throat as his gaze automatically followed that of the Master. Nyssa looked like a broken doll, lying on the floor as if discarded by a careless child. Arms and legs were flung away from her body, her face half-hidden by the turn of her shoulder and tumble of hair. The top of her white medical uniform was torn, exposing one shoulder and the upper part of her chest. But she was breathing; the exposed chest rose and fell in a regular rhythm. The Doctor was caught between relief and despair; she still lived, but what the Master had planned for her, still wearing her father's body...

The Doctor's eyes flickered over to the renegade Time Lord. He was reaching for the belt of his robe, untying it without haste. He pulled it down and allowed it to drop off his body casually, revealing bare flesh underneath, except for the black gloves remaining on his hands. Grasping the bottle of asphrodal, he knelt on the floor next to Nyssa's unconscious form.

He raised her head tenderly and laid it on his knee, then removed the stopper from the bottle. He paused and glanced back up at the Doctor. "I wasn't quite sure how to play this final scene of our little drama," he said reflectively. "I was faced with one of two choices; let her struggle against me, reacting under her own will, or give her something to make her willing to do whatever I wanted her to do." His eyes glittered with malicious amusement. "I finally decided to do both; it will be interesting to see how long she manages to fight the effects, don't you think?"

The Doctor was beyond speech; he simply stood, unmoving, as the Master, shrugging at his lack of response, turned his attention back to Nyssa. He gently slapped her cheeks, murmuring encouragingly as her eyelids fluttered and she raised her head, only to allow it to drop back onto his lap. She pushed ineffectually at the hand the Master had left on her cheek, and he chuckled at the pitiful gesture. "Drink this," he ordered, bringing the small decanter to her lips. "It will help you...wake up."

Nyssa looked very unsure of her desire to wake up, but the need to keep a clear head asserted itself, and she drank obediently. The Doctor made no move to stop her; it would only result in the Master forcing it down her throat some other way. And the Doctor had no doubt that there was more of the vile stuff in convenient reach on the other TARDIS. Screaming for Nyssa to run was futile as well; she was in no condition to escape the Master's grasp. It was a situation the Doctor had faced before; helpless, incapable of coming to the aid of someone he cared for—someone he was just beginning to realize how much he cared for—knowing that there was literally nothing he could do to stop the unfolding drama. Memories of Adric's death flashed through his mind; he was filled with the same sense of helpless rage, rage at his own inability to do something, anything, to change the situation.

It didn't take long for the drug to take effect. In less than a minute, Nyssa's eyes had become brighter, more alert, and she raised her head easily as she pulled herself to her knees. She looked around, putting a hesitant hand to her head as she blinked in confusion. The minute she noticed the Master, however, she staggered to her feet and edged along the far wall, distancing herself from him.

The Doctor knew better than to be heartened by this reaction; his knowledge of asphrodal was coming back to him in bitter chunks now. It caused hypersensitivity to certain nerve endings, while at the same time dulling others. Nyssa, he knew, was slightly disoriented, but no longer feeling any pain. Next would come the overwhelming rush of sexual desire as the drug worked its potent sorcery on her hormones and stimulated the pleasure center of her brain until the ability to resist was overwhelmed. Then all the other horrific effects he wished he didn't remember would follow, because the Master had made it quite clear he would not administer the antidote, not unless the Doctor were there. She would die in agony.

Or would she? Suddenly the significance of the dagger became clear. The Doctor could practically see the Master offering it to her as a way to end her pain. Another horrible thought to contemplate, but it would certainly be in character. Watching Nyssa die would be painful enough; watching her die by her own hand—with a little help from the Master—was unimaginable.

Even while these unpleasant thoughts flashed through the Doctor's mind, he saw the effects of the first stage kicking in. Nyssa shuddered once as her breathing sped up, putting her hands to her head as the drug began affecting her in earnest. Time, which had already been running out, was even more an enemy now.

The Master, who hadn't bothered to move, saw this as well, and finally rose to his feet. He walked over to Nyssa, who stood, rooted to the spot, while he brushed his fingers delicately across her cheek. She flinched away from his touch, but the Doctor could tell that the drug had already sensitized her skin; a faint blush colored her cheek where the Master touched her, and her movement was slightly erratic. But she was fighting it; the Doctor found himself holding his breath as he waited to see how long she would be able to continue doing so.

Nyssa pulled herself away from the Master with obvious effort, shuddering as he reached out to draw his fingers across her exposed shoulder in a lingering caress. With a sudden burst of energy, she threw off his hand and ran for the door. The unexpectedness of her action startled the Master, who reacted slowly enough for her to yank the door open and vanish down the hall once again. With a curse, the Master glared at the Doctor before whirling around to follow her, pausing only to snatch up the robe. He was still struggling to fasten it when he, too, vanished from sight.

The Doctor spared no time in springing to action, fingers dancing across the control board in a flurry of movement. Nyssa had always been very resourceful; in spite of the considerable obstacle of the asphrodal, he expected no less of her this time.

Time. He paused as a sense of irony hit him. Unfortunately, time was literally on the Master's side, in every sense of the word. Not that the Doctor had any intention of giving in to that fact. His fingers continued their rapid movement, his gaze flickering almost as rapidly from the buttons to the information flashing across the screens on the control board. A brief smile bloomed and died as he found the information he sought, then dropped to the floor to put his desperate inspiration into action.

If what he had in mind worked, he just might have bought Nyssa some of the time she so desperately needed.

He jumped back up to his feet a few precious minutes later, not bothering to close the base as he returned his attention to the controls, begrudging the passing of every second. An expression of grim satisfaction spread across his face as a flashing red light caught his attention. He put the finishing touches on his modifications, then stepped over to the door.

He'd arrived at his destination. It was time and past time to have a word with the Master.

* * *

_A/N: Thank you to my loyal reader and reviewer (you know who you are)! Glad you are enjoying the story. This is the second to last chapter, hope you continue to enjoy!_


	4. Timing Is Everything

**oOo **

"Why didn't I think of a tracking device?" the Doctor muttered to himself for the hundredth time. He'd turned down yet another blind alley, and his impatience with himself was increasing with every delay.

When he did find the Master and Nyssa in an open storeroom round the next bend, he was so startled he could do nothing at first but stand and stare.

Nyssa's eyes were heavy-lidded, unfocused, her skin flushed. The fact that the Master was sitting next to her, his lips pressed to her throat, did not in the least seem to upset her; quite the opposite, in fact. The sighs that escaped her bordered on moans as her hands fumbled at the clasps of her uniform. It was obvious that the asphrodal had overcome not only her higher reasoning abilities, but her survival instincts as well.

The Doctor finally found the ability to move, slowly at first, then faster, reaching down in sudden fury to yank the Master away from his intended victim. Nyssa whimpered at the sudden break in contact, her hands groping blindly after the Master. But he was occupied with a different kind of partner at the moment—one who gave every indication of a man pushed to the edge as he grasped double handfuls of the loose-fitting gray robe and shoved the other Time Lord up against the wall. "Surprised to see me?"

The Master didn't even try to free himself from the Doctor's furious grasp; he merely grinned, hands by his sides, half-hidden in the robe's folds. "I suppose you think this means you've won," he said conversationally, glancing down at the Doctor's hands and then back up at his face, one eyebrow quirked questioningly.

"Haven't I?" the Doctor countered, his voice perfectly calm, in eerie contrast to the fury of his eyes and movements. "I'll take the antidote, if you please." He released the Master as he stepped back and held out one hand demandingly, body tensed for an attack.

One that never came. The Master reached into one pocket—slowly—and pulled out the small vial containing the antidote. "Here it is Doctor, as promised, and I must say I am impressed. I didn't expect you to find me quite so soon." His eyes traveled over to Nyssa, still huddled in her corner, breath coming in labored gasps. "Of course, 'soon' is a relative term."

The Doctor said nothing; he knew what the Master meant, and the Master knew that he knew, but his enemy chose to spell it out anyway. Twisting the knife. "Look at her, Doctor. She's already well into the second stage. If you give her the antidote now, it won't do any good. The hormone level is too high." He grinned nastily, edging away from his adversary as the Doctor allowed his eyes to flicker briefly over to Nyssa. "She's going to need to be...relieved...of some of her excess—shall we call it energy?—first. And, since I doubt very much that you would care for me to continue my ministrations, that leaves only one person who can help her." His eyes finally returned to meet those of the Doctor. "You."

He reached up to his collar, rubbed at the inner material thoughtfully. "The sooner the better; you know what has to be done before the antidote can be safely administered. You wouldn't want her to be in such...discomfort...any longer than she has to, would you?" Another mocking smile, that turned triumphant as he depressed a hidden button and shimmered in the unexpected beam of a transmat. The Doctor took an ineffectual step forward, stopping himself as the Master disappeared from view.

A sound from the corner brought his attention back to Nyssa. Amazingly, she had brought herself to her knees, and was in the process of attempting to rise. Her breathing was still labored, and her flushed skin shone with a faint sheen of perspiration, but her eyes were lucid, filled with determination, however temporary in nature. The Doctor admired her ability to overcome the effects of the asphrodal, even as he moved forward and placed a gentle arm around her shoulders. "Can you walk?" he asked softly, ignoring the shiver that passed over her body at his touch.

Nyssa nodded, took a stumbling step forward and nearly collapsed. The Doctor had been expecting that; he caught her up in his arms. "I think it'll be easier if I carry you to my TARDIS," he murmured. She nodded again, managing a brief smile before resting her head on his shoulder and relaxing into his hold.

"Where did he go?" The barely-heard question took the Doctor by surprise; his startled gaze met Nyssa's briefly as he answered.

"He's somehow installed a transmat in his TARDIS," he explained. "I'm surprised; I'd always been told that the two technologies were incompatible. Not only has he incorporated it into his TARDIS, he's also managed to integrate one that doesn't require a beam-out station." He was babbling, going on in far too much detail for someone in her condition to follow, but kept talking, hoping she could focus on the sound of his voice, if not the content of his words.

The Doctor felt Nyssa nod weakly as he fell silent, her energy apparently spent on that last question. As for him, he was completely aware of the woman in his arms, physically and mentally. The Master's final, taunting words rang through his mind as he moved toward his TARDIS. _"You, Doctor, are the only one who can help her now."_

Those words made the Doctor extremely uncomfortable, not only because he knew they were the simple truth, but for a far more personal reason. On his own, he'd never have the courage to let Nyssa know how he felt, let alone initiate any sort of physical relationship; he could almost feel a sort of gratitude toward the Master for forcing the confrontation he knew would be inevitable, when Nyssa returned to her senses.

Almost. This was neither the time nor the place, he chided himself silently, for him to be having such thoughts. Nyssa needed him, as none of his companions had ever needed him—and he wasn't just thinking about the asphrodal. She'd needed him well before the Master had taken her captive, he saw that now. Saw to his regret how he'd allowed his own fears to blind him to Nyssa's feelings.

He only prayed he had the strength to do what he knew he must.

**oOo**

Nyssa's mind floated in a pleasant haze as the Doctor carried her back to his TARDIS. Part of her realized his discomfort, but it was a small part, one easily overcome by the waves of desire generated by the drug coursing through her system. As the Doctor gently deposited her on the floor of the Console Room and hurriedly entered a string of coordinates into the navigation computer, however, she felt part of herself regaining control again, now that she wasn't distracted by the feel of his arms around her. "Doctor," she whispered as he knelt by her side, preparing to bringing her elsewhere. She raised a trembling hand and placed it on his cheek. "Please, don't worry about...how I'll feel...when I'm recovered. I...understand."

He made no reply, merely took her in his arms once again and headed for the interior of the TARDIS. When they reached the hallway leading to the main living quarters, he hesitated only briefly before striding down the short corridor leading to his private suite of rooms.

Nyssa's words only put him into more turmoil. He was grateful for her attempt to release him from guilt, to absolve him from doing something she obviously thought he didn't want to do, when in truth it was the exact opposite. He did want to, how did the Master put it? "Help her", that was it. He wanted to help her, and in doing so, help himself.

But Nyssa was in no shape to understand that, not now. He could tell just by looking at her glazed eyes and sweat-streaked body as he gently deposited her in the middle of his bed. That last attempt to ease his mind had been just that: a last attempt.

Explanations would have to wait for later.

**ooooooooooooo**

"Nyssa?"

Someone was calling her name, someone with a familiar voice, no matter how low it was pitched. She smiled behind her closed eyes and rolled on her side. She felt deliciously sleepy, in spite of the slight ache between her legs that she couldn't quite place and didn't feel like analyzing. Because doing so, she sensed, would mean she had to wake up fully, and she wasn't ready to do that. Not yet.

"Nyssa, are you awake? Can you hear me?"

The voice again, more insistent this time. Nyssa's smile turned into a frown as that anxious, questioning voice forced her closer to consciousness. Forced her to finally, reluctantly, open her eyes.

She was lying in a bed. In the Doctor's bed. Her eyes flickered to the side, and she saw the Doctor's anxious face staring back at her. The fact that she was awake didn't seem to comfort him; quite the opposite, in fact. His eyes slid away from hers in a way that made her frown deepen, in a way she'd never seen him do before. As if he'd done something he was ashamed of, or felt guilty about.

As if he'd done something to her.

Memory returned in a rush as Nyssa abruptly sat up, sheets clutched to her chest, eyes widened in disbelief. The Doctor was sitting on a chair next to his bed, wearing a robe, but she was naked. Had they—did they? She stared down at herself, then returned her questioning gaze to the Doctor. Who nodded at her unspoken question, the guilt now clear on his face. "I'm sorry," he said softly. "But the Master was right; the only thing that could be done for you...was to give you what the drug forced you to need. It was too late—and too soon—for me to give you the antidote. Which," he added hastily, "I gave you right after. You should be fine now."

Nyssa nodded, lowering her eyes as she clasped her hands around her knees, sheet firmly in place. "Thank you," she finally said. "I realize how difficult this has been for you…"

"For me?" The Doctor's voice rang with disbelief as he stared at her. "Nyssa, are my ears deceiving me, or are you getting ready to apologize?"

She felt a faint blush as she nodded, biting her lower lip. "It does rather look like that, doesn't it."

The Doctor shook his head. "Nyssa, you never cease to amaze me. If anyone should be making apologies here, it's me! This is all my fault; the Master came after you deliberately."

Nyssa nodded. "I know. To hurt you by hurting one of your companions. I understand—"

"No, I don't think you do," the Doctor interrupted softly. He hesitated only briefly before moving to sit on the edge of the bed. His eyes never left hers as he continued. "Nyssa, I don't think he ever intended any outcome except the one that occurred."

"I know." The Doctor stared at her calm acceptance of his words. "He caught up to me long before you found us in that storeroom; he was waiting for you. I was lost at that point," she confessed quietly. "Anyone could have been there, and I would have submitted to them without hesitating. He never even touched me until we heard your footsteps."

"I see." The Doctor stared thoughtfully at his hands, then back at her. Before he could say anything else, however, Nyssa spoke.

"I assume he chose me because I left myself vulnerable. Alone on an isolated space station, no military protection to speak of…" Her voice turned bitter. "I can't believe I left myself open to attack; I should have realized old enemies would find me a tempting target for venge—"

"Nyssa." The Doctor's voice stopped the flow of self-recrimination in mid-word. She looked at him. "If anyone's to blame for this, it's me." He took a deep breath; it was now or never. "I know exactly why the Master chose you, and it has nothing to do with where you were or how vulnerable you might or might not have been at the time. It wasn't even because you were one of my past traveling companions."

"Then why?" she demanded, intrigued and disturbed. She wasn't sure she was ready to hear what might be coming next, but at the same time couldn't wait to find out.

"He chose you because he'd discovered something that I'd ignored or deliberately overlooked," the Doctor continued. "The fact that you are in love with me. At least, you were when you left the TARDIS," he added hastily. "I know people's feelings change—"

"Mine haven't." The words were out before Nyssa could stop them, and she wasn't sure if she was more relieved or angry at herself for allowing them to be said. But she didn't want there to be any misunderstandings between them. Not now. No matter how this situation ended up—even if he merely returned her to Terminus and she never saw him again—she wanted everything to be out in the open. "I still love you."

There was a flicker of something in the Doctor's eyes as she spoke, something she couldn't quite identify. "I'm very glad you told me that," he finally said, reaching out to take her hand in his. "Because by bringing you away from Terminus, the Master has forced me, for once in my life, to confront my own feelings. To admit to myself that I...care for you. Care for you deeply, in a way I haven't cared for anyone in a very long time." He smiled. "I'm sorry that it took the Master to force me to admit these things," he continued softly, "and I'm sorry that this had to happen to you, but at the same time I'm glad I had the chance to tell you how I feel. And to realize it myself." He paused. "It's difficult for me to admit this, but I think I was rather frightened of you."

"And I'm sorry I ran away without telling you how I felt. I was frightened, too," Nyssa confessed. "Frightened that I was going to make a fool of myself, if I stayed on the TARDIS much longer. Perhaps the Master did us a favor after all." She reconsidered. "No, I don't think so. But I can accept the outcome of his manipulation even though I intend to shred him into tiny pieces if I ever see him again."

"Well, let's just hope it never comes to that," the Doctor said. "With any luck he'll go out of his way to avoid us both."

Nyssa reached with her free hand to touch his cheek, moving closer until they were side by side. The Doctor's arm moved hesitantly around her shoulder, as if he were afraid she might vanish if he held her too closely. "Where do we go from here?" Then, as something seemed to occur to her: "Are you traveling with anyone now?"

"No one," he replied simply. "Tegan and Turlough went home shortly after you left, and Peri—someone else I picked up for a while—just wasn't cut out for life on the TARDIS. I brought her home right after Turlough left. I just...wanted to be alone."

"Do you still want that? To be alone?"

The Doctor's arm tightened around Nyssa; he could hear her quiet breathing in the silence that fell after her question. "No," he finally replied, his voice barely audible. "I think I've had quite enough of being alone." He paused, then asked, "Doesn't Terminus need you?"

She shook her head, turning to look up at him with a smile. "Not anymore. I think I'm ready for a new challenge."

"I hope I live up to your expectations," the Doctor murmured dryly before leaning down to plant a loving kiss on Nyssa's upturned lips. He felt her muffled laughter against his mouth, but ignored it.

After all, there would be plenty of time for her to laugh at him.

All the time in the universe.

* * *

_A/N: Well, that's it, the end of the line. Hope you enjoyed it!_


End file.
